"Alfred, where are you?" called the gleeful voice, as she hurried in at one of the many doors which led from the verandah to the house. The room she entered was already carefully darkened, having its heavy green _persiennes_ closed against the solar rays, though a chink of light served to reveal the occupant at the writing-table, who raised his eyes from the blue papers scattered before him. There was a gravity and placidity about his movements which suggested his being older than his years. His figure, though slender, was firmly knit. His fine-grained skin and whole appearance gave evidence of careful culture of the body, though the long thin hands, which were resting on his papers, were those of a man of the desk rather than a devotee of the polo or cricket field. "News, Alfred, delightful news! Actually a letter from Charlie to tell us that Mark Cheveril, his great friend, is on his way to Madras!" "Cheveril! Why, that name is surely familiar! Yes, he was Mark too. He was one of the smaller boys when I was at Hacket's." Suddenly Mr. Alfred Rayner's delicately-pencilled eyebrows contracted to a frown. "But, I say, Hester, he's a half-caste, actually used to boast in the most shameless manner that his mother was an Indian. Little fool!" "Yes, his father was a lieutenant in the Indian Army, and married an Indian princess. Wasn't it romantic? It must be from his mother he got his good looks, he is so dark and handsome." "But, Hester, what an arrant fool the man must be to set foot in India again--half-caste as he is!" "Why, it's been the dream of Mark Cheveril's life to go back to his native land. Father always said he particularly admired that trait in him." "Just like one of your father's unworldly notions! Let me tell you they don't work east of Suez. I'm afraid, for instance, that it will be difficult for us to have anything to do with him." Mr. Rayner tapped his papers thoughtfully with his thin hand. "Anything to do with him," echoed Hester, her deep grey eyes dilating. "But Mark Cheveril is Charlie's greatest friend. Listen to what he says." She turned to the letter and read: "'I've just been thinking how delightful it will be for you to see Cheveril out there. Tell Rayner I took advantage of his _carte blanche_ to invite him to stay with you, assuring him that he would be welcome, as I remembered how Rayner expatiated on the hospitality of Anglo-Indians----'" "Didn't think I was to be asked to extend that hospitality to half-castes," muttered Mr. Rayner, bending over his writing table with a sulky air. There was a perplexed look in his wife's eyes as she glanced at him. She had not seen that expression on her husband's face before. "And what is this noble Eurasian going to do here does your brother say? Is he going to look out for a job?"